Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

"Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the

Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,

you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don't

forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a

bit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty

roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"

And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood

Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colour

with fright.

"I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman

close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't

pay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take us

somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."

Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling

experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a

recession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage

with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They

went up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly

disappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators were

ascending to the very stars.

At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band

made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables

of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.

"Order something," suggested Bender.

The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.

"And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr.

Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer,

you'd be amazed at our courage."

There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will

start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted to

go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.

But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his

unctuous face towards Ostap.

"Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.

"They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush us

tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."

Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.

"Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal

patriot."

"Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the

hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.

"Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the

enemy. I'll give you a pistol."

"There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.

The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the

stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part in

the coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar with

warfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairman

of the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but was

prepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father of

Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).

"You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing

down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save the

master-mind."

"Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.

Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under

the table in delight.

"I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out

of place here."

He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done,

Pussy, that's the stuff!

It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the

master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed over

fifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,

departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later he

dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

GOING TO CRIMEA AS YOU ADVISED STOP PREPARE BASKET JUST IN CASE

The many privations which Ostap had suffered demanded immediate

compensation. That evening the smooth operator drank himself into a stupor

and practically fell out of the cable-car on the way back to the hotel. The

next day he realized a long-cherished dream and bought a heavenly grey

polka-dot suit. It was hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating

profusely. In the Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov was bought a white

pique" suit and a yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht

club. In this attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in

the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.

"Ah," said Bender, "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give a handsome

he-man like you an eight per cent reduction off my usual price. My, we can

certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? "

"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov kept saying, "what about the chairs?

We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."

"Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a chair in a large Moorish-style

room in the Hotel Orient. "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil. I have

money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty roubles and three days to

loot the city. I'm like Suvorov. . . . Loot the city, Pussy! Enjoy

yourself!"

And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time:

"The evening bells, the evening bells, How many thoughts they bring. .

. ."

The friends caroused wildly for a whole week. Vorobyaninov's naval

uniform became covered with apple-sized wine spots of different colours; on

Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.

"Hi!" said Ostap on the eighth morning, so hung-over that he was

reading the newspaper Dawn of the East. "Listen, you drunken sot, to what

clever people are writing in the press! Listen!

THEATRE NEWS

The Moscow Columbus Theatre left yesterday, Sept. 3, for a tour of

Yalta, having completed its stay in Tiflis. The theatre is planning to

remain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'"

"What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov.

"What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap.

He was nevertheless embarrassed. The careless mistake was very

unpleasant. Instead of ending the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had to

move on to the Crimean peninsula. Ostap immediately set to work. Tickets

were bought to Batumi and second-class-berths reserved on the S.S. Pestel

leaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7.

On the night of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set

sail for Yalta without calling at Anapa on account of the gale, Ippolit

Matveyevich had a dream.

He dreamed he was standing in his admiral's uniform on the balcony of

his house in Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to do

something. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet.

Tikhon the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by the hind legs,

said:

"Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?"

Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in his hand. He stuck it into the

pig's side, and jewels came pouring out of the large wound and rolled on to

the cement floor. They jumped about and clattered more and more loudly. The

noise finally became unbearable and terrifying,